


the wolf nipping at your heels

by LittleAprilFlowers



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, F/M, Farmer Fenris!, Fog Warriors, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I just really want DA4 soon and I want Fenris to be in it, King Alistair, M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Tevinter Imperium (Dragon Age), The Fade, The Veil (Dragon Age), Viscount Varric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-11 23:26:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18434309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleAprilFlowers/pseuds/LittleAprilFlowers
Summary: After Hawke was left in the Fade at Adamant, Fenris tries to walk through life alone. His history still haunts him, and as he is suddenly gifted with that which he sees as a curse, the root of all his problems seem to lay in the hands of one man. But how does one find a stranger who can freely walk the Fade and doesn't wish to be found?





	1. An Offer at Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I tried to do this one already. This time around is gonna be better though because I'm making it up as I go along, and I'm writing it for people to actually enjoy rather than for my own pleasure.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present, Varric is visited by an old friend.

Varric sighs and resists the urge to rub his face with exasperation as the two nobles continue to bicker. He reminds himself this is the last petitioning for the day - soon these squabbling pure bloods will be gone, and he can sit back with a glass of wine in his bedchamber and forget about it. In truth he could be thankful for their conflict, as it proves evidence that Kirkwall really is on the mend. People didn’t have to worry about food in their bellies or roofs over their heads anymore; the gentry at least were back to demanding reparations for what they lost with the Chantry explosion and the chaos which ensued.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Varric says. The two men fall silent and watch their viscount expectantly. “Ser Goodhill, with all due respect, your family’s ancestral home is plenty intact. My guardsmen have found no evidence to suggest that your neighbours took advantage of your family fleeing the city. As for you, Ser Tardy, I am willing to publicly acknowledge such information on the promise that you allow your sister to return to the Goodhill estate to live her life as she so pleases - if Ser Goodhill will still have her.”

Their relenting is like music to Varric’s ears. The nobles bow and leave the keep escorted by guards - as a courtesy rather than a precaution, as neither seem the type to start a brawl in the streets. Glancing up from the door that they depart through, Varric casts a longing look at the sun setting just outside the window. He tries not to think of the sight of it reflected in pools of blood at the foot of the very throne he now sits in, a memory dredged up from years ago. Nor does he desire to spare a thought of the dead man the blood spilled from, his head severed from his shoulders by the cruel weapon of a stranded Arishok.

“Aren’t you a little short for a viscount?”

The voice echoes through the otherwise empty hall, and Varric has to lean around his seat to see the source of it. He ought to have known from the unique gravelly quality of the voice itself, but a flash of white hair and the low glow of lyrium in a shadowy doorway confirms it.

“Did the crown of thorns give it away?” Varric asks, hopping down to his feet and crossing the space to his old friend. “It’s been too long. To be totally honest I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I thought I’d surprise you.” Fenris admits, a warm smile on his face as he and Varric shake hands. “Besides, you did say when last I saw you that I would always be welcome back in Kirkwall. I trust that offer still stands - I imagine a guest room here rather puts the Hanged Man’s offerings to shame.”

Varric chuckles. “You hardly complained back when you needed a place to crash,  whenever I handed your ass to you in Wicked Grace.”

“Humbler times.” Fenris agrees. It is not clear if he consciously brushes his hand over the favour he still wears at his hip; Varric pretends not to notice regardless. But he also notes the red fabric wound around Fenris’ wrist, a little worn and torn from the years passing but as prominent a declaration as ever.

Varric takes Fenris by the arm and steers him through the door he had arrived through, out the back of the main part of the building and into the viscount’s private chambers. Guards startle at the sight of such an odd companion at his side, but they are waved off before any of them can question it.

“How’s Aveline?” Fenris asks as they walk.

“She’s doing alright. Got her hands full with the rebuilding efforts.” Varric replies, “Donnic keeps her sane though. Maker knows her sense of duty might have killed her by now otherwise.”

“And Merrill?”

“She’s basically running the alienage. I don’t think she ever thought she would be a Keeper, after what happened with her clan. But she’s taken to it like a duck to water.”

Fenris hums in thought. Varric wonders if he will seek the others out while he is here. Their companions had mostly disappeared to the winds, though the dwarf has his ways of keeping in touch - Isabela had pledged herself to the Inquisition’s efforts in the end, and Sebastian was still rumbling away in the north. Anders was missing; perhaps with Fenris back in town, that would be for the best.

Each of their faces brings up one other, a face Varric finds he misses the most; laughter lines and amber eyes, framed with a beard that would look ridiculous on anyone else. A trademark smirk and a charming confidence that put Varric’s own to shame.

Hawke.

Memories of their fearless leader sends Varric to a more recent time, as the Warden fortress falls around them. The sickly green of the Fade surrounds them as the Veil between the realms visibly shudders. A demon with too many eyes roars and scrambles after them. Hawke smiles. He readies his staff and gives the Inquisitor a grim nod before charging to face the Nightmare alone and give the rest of them enough time to escape, raw magic crackling in his hands and an accepting smirk on his face.

_ Always the Maker-damned spiders… _

“You miss him.” Fenris states, his voice cutting through Varric’s haze with the sharp sting of a knife dragged across the palm of his hand. The words are knowing of the pain Varric feels in his heart, but they hint at something deeper, something raw and broken, unable to heal.

They all loved Hawke, but he and Fenris had spent years dancing around the truth of how strongly they felt for one another. Merrill’s teasing observation of puppy dog eyes, the constant brooding, the stolen glances and longing stares. At the time such things offered a light relief in the face of the world falling apart around them. But it was frustrating to see the pair of them deny themselves such a happiness among the corruption and chaos which was so infamously rife in Kirkwall. Now it all seemed like wasted time.

“We all do.” He replies, “In our own way.”

Apparently satisfied with that answer, Fenris nods and falls back into silence. He looks older than Varric remembers, though it has been a few years now since they last saw one another. The sides of his hair have been shaved, save for a long plait tied high on his head and then draped over one shoulder. Where he once covered his markings - for shame or necessity, it was never clear - his light armour and travelling cloak make concealment an option rather than a necessity. And where it had been unusual to see Fenris without a greatsword strapped to his back, the blade almost dwarfing his lithe build, now he seems to favour a pair of finely crafted Antivan daggers which sit at his hips.

“Here we are. Best view in the city.” Varric says suddenly, stopping at a nondescript door and ushering Fenris inside.

He’s not wrong; beyond them, parted only by an impressive sheet of Orzammar glass, lies the renewed Kirkwall in all its mismatched glory. Smoke rises from chimneys where once it spiralled from decimated buildings. The remains of the Chantry are covered in scaffolding as the place of worship rises from its own ashes. The golden sunset bathes the City of Chains in an almost heavenly glow. It could be a paradise if one didn’t know any better.

“Take a seat.” Varric insists, waving to the table by the window. A corked bottle of wine and a handful of glasses await. Fenris helps himself and pours for two, settling in the chair nearest the door and then sipping from his drink once he appears to be comfortable.

“You must get lonely up here.” Fenris remarks, “Even with the entirety of Kirkwall beneath your feet. Has Bran not managed to marry you off yet?”

“Not for want of trying.”

“Well, best not to leave it too late. You’re not getting any younger.”

“You know, that’s just what Bran said.”

That prompts a laugh, warmer and more open than Varric is used to hearing from the white-haired elf at his side. Everything about him seems more vulnerable in a familiar presence despite recent events.

“He also said inviting you here was a fool’s errand.” Varric admits, changing the subject while he still has his friend listening. “You ignored all my other letters.”

“I don’t want to fight on some Andrastian crusade. Surely there are enough armies of the faithful left for that.” Fenris mutters, finishing his wine in a swift gulp before pouring another. 

“The Inquisition isn’t an Exalted March. In fact, it’s not even really the Inquisition anymore. We just… try to do what we can, in a world still tearing itself apart, despite our best efforts.”

Fenris glares accusingly at the wine in his cup. “And you want my help? Or did this Inquisitor ask for me personally?”

“I have a tip for you, nothing more. You can thank the Red Jennies for it. You know, the group Charade was running with?”

Fenris hums in response. He casts a doubtful glance at Varric, and then sighs bitterly. “What kind of tip?”

“Dalish caravans have been skimming the Nevarran border with Tevinter. They’ve been gathering for the Arlathvhen - Daisy nearly packed up herself to go, until rumours started drifting in about slavers taking advantage of the influx of elves.”

“The Inquisition gains what from me dealing with this, exactly?”

Varric tuts, his tone exasperated but tolerating. “Nothing. But this sounds like your kind of job.”

“It is. I’ll go.” Fenris agrees, “But I need something in return, Varric. I need you to make me a promise.”

“I’ll try.”

Fenris leans forward in his chair so he can lower his voice. Sometimes it feels like even the walls have ears - especially in places as old as this. Anyone alive or dead could be listening, and in such dangerous times, this request was for Varric only.

“You can tell no one of this.” Fenris warns.

Varric huffs. “Cross my heart, and hope to be trampled by a horny bronto.”

With a click of his fingers, a jaunty flame dances in the palm of Fenris’ hand. Varric blinks dumbfounded at it. Arguably no one in Thedas mistrusted magic more deeply than the one person who sat next to him, the same person who had conjured a flame as easily as drawing a breath.

Fenris’ face is set in determined lines, the exertion of spellcasting causing his lyrium lines to glow faintly and make every one of his angular features more terrifying as he murmurs his request.

“I need everything the Inquisition knows about an elf called Solas. He and I need to have a little chat.”


	2. A Spark Ignites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, Fenris tries something new.

“We get a lot of different folks out here.” The farmer had said, a rake resting on her shoulder as she had looked him up and down, the parchment asking for workers still clutched in the strange elf’s fingers. “You seem about as different as they come.  You say you were a mercenary? Can you lift?”

“Enough to swing a large sword around.”

“Mhmm. There won’t be much of that here. But you’ve got the stamina for working long hours?”

“I like to think so.” he replied, a teasing smile pulling at his mouth.

“Huh.” She hums, “You’ll be sleeping in the hayloft. It’s above the animal pens so it ain’t exactly the guest suite at the Winter Palace, but it’s warm and dry, and it’s about all we’ve got to offer. Pay’s fair. Food’s provided.”

“Sounds perfect. When can I start?”

She’d grinned, and offered her free hand for him to shake. “Right now, if you’re ready. Your name?”

“Leto.”

“Vera. Pleasure to meet you, Leto. Let’s get you introduced to everyone.”

Fenris found that farm work satisfied him in a way he could not have predicted. There was something soothing about rising early in the morning and settling down late at night, hosted by a family who did not judge him for the shape of his ears or the strange glowing marks on his skin. The farm itself was populated by Vera, her wife Jen, and their three adopted children - all boys, and all keen to work alongside this new face who proved to be so fascinating to them when others might fear him. Where they taught him to plough fields and work with the animals, Fenris taught them to defend themselves. No bandits ever bothered to drift this far from the Imperial Highway. Few natural predators stalked near their home to the east of Cumberland. But the children’s parents had been more than happy to allow their sons to spar with him for their own betterment despite their apparent safety.

So farm work satisfied him. For a while it seemed Fenris might actually have found his calling. The loss of Hawke had destroyed him; he became disillusioned with his efforts to obliterate the slave trade in and out of Tevinter, and had wandered northern Thedas for months searching for something he could lose himself in. When a barkeep handed him Vera’s note from the chanter’s board he had leapt at the chance.

Fenris ought to have predicted that trouble would inevitably catch up to him.

They came in the night. While Vera and her family slumbered in the farmhouse nearby, Fenris found himself unable to sleep, even with the now familiar noises of the creatures beneath him. He has clambered down the ladder and out of the barn into the cool night air, the yard bathed in the pale bluish glow of moonlight. A refreshing breeze made him shudder. Leaves all around rustled in the wind, concealing footsteps that Fenris might have detected if he were paying more attention. He had become accustomed to living life without his guard permanently up - he had become soft and foolish, and not at his own expense. In one moment he was basking in the blissful silence of the night, and the next his face was being forced into the mud with a boot lodged firmly against his back.

“Say a single word out of turn and I’ll end you.” a harsh male voice had barked at him. His attacker was not alone - more movement to Fenris’ left signalled at least two other bulky shadows moving towards the family home.

Fenris grunted and writhed but could not free himself. A stone dug into his cheek and broke the skin, his blood mingling with the black soil. He hissed quietly in pain and stilled, and his captor chuckled darkly.

“That’s a good elf. Now you know your place.” He muttered. “Tell us where your masters keep the good stuff, and we’ll be on our way. Easy as that.”

“They are  _ not  _ my masters.” Fenris had argued through gritted teeth.

“You’ve been living in a barn. More of a loyal pet? A guard dog?”

“ _ Dabis mi beneficarum, et pedicabo tua mater, turpis bastardi _ —“ Fenris spat before he is cut off by the heel of the boot on his back being slammed into his spine and ribs. He grunted as the air was forced from his lungs.

“Tevene? An escaped slave, then? Very nice. I wonder how big the bounty is on your head, little runaway.”

A cry sent a thrill of panic through him as the family were dragged out by the invaders. Fenris managed to turn his head and see two of the three sons shuddering silently, covered in blood that - thankfully - did not seem to be theirs. Vera and the eldest boy were nowhere to be seen. Jen hugged her sons close to her as they were released; she sobbed, claret mixed with the tears running down her cheeks.

“Leto!” The youngest cried out, a boy of only six, but his mother had yanked him back back before he could come any closer.

“Is that your name? Leto?” The man repeated, easing off on Fenris ever so slightly to turn and sneer at his captives. It was the second and last mistake he had made. The first had been threatening innocent people that he cared about.

Fenris would not allow him to live to make another.

The moment the weight on him had lessened, Fenris pushed back with every ounce of strength he had, sending his captor sprawling back into the mud. The two boys yelled and kicked at the other men as they were dragged back into the house by their screaming mother. A torch had been lit. The humble thatched house would easily burn down in minutes.

“Leto!” Jen cried, “Do something! Please!”

Phasing with his lyrium marks came as easily as breathing to Fenris after years of manipulating the Veil to his will. Too many men had found their end staring into their own still-beating heart, a handful of gore and sinew clenched in the clawed fist of Fenris’ gauntlet. But this time was different. As Fenris called on the lyrium that ran in intricate whorls in his skin, something on the other side answered him. Fire consumed him from his fingertips to his elbows and he shouted in agony as they licked at his arms, burning him. He could feel the hairs on his arms singeing as he threw them outwards in the direction of the leader. Instantly the man was engulfed in an inferno. 

It was not enough of a distraction for the others, seeing their boss flail and scream in agony. Knives glimmered in the moonlight as they were drawn across fragile young necks. Jen released a scream of desperation before her throat too was slit. Fenris stumbled to them, but he was too late. A few last gurgling breaths signalled that his desperation had been for naught.

It was now that the lyrium did as was demanded, and both of the intruders lay in shreds upon the muddied earth when he was done with them. The sun rose on a clearing of bloody chaos as a rooster heralded the dawn. 


	3. Crossed Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the present, Fenris saves a life.

Varric’s tip brings Fenris from the southern Marches to a wooded area along the border of Nevarra and Tevinter, just north of a town called Nessum. The two countries have been tiptoeing the line of a war for a few years now, enough so that rumours of clashes between them had travelled far enough south for the Inquisition to have gotten involved back in its prime. Fenris huffs at the thought, his breath a cloud of warm steam in the chill of the night air. It seems the Inquisition had influenced a lot of developments across the continent in the last few years. And yet wars still rage, nobles still bicker, and slaves still toil until their dying breath. So much feels as if it has changed and yet so little is different. The only real distinction between now and before the ill-fated Conclave is that Fenris travels alone. And his hair is longer.

Barely discernible among the trees, Fenris creeps through the woods. In his time with the Fog Warriors he had learned to listen to the forest and let it conceal him, rather than deliberately search for places to hide. He had learned to blend into the shadows of tree trunks and ferns, just as he did now, with a dagger in either hand. Though the jungles of Seheron were thicker than these woods, and the natural fog of the island was absent here on such a clear night, he is indistinguishable to an untrained eye. His bare feet make no sound upon the mossy earth. He would wait for the snap of a branch, the rustle of leaves, or the distant glow of a campfire to alert him to the presence of his target.

But he knows that those he is hunting have one advantage over him; slavers from Tevinter always brought along at least one skilled mage.

The years have not dulled his mistrust in all things magic. There had been one man to prove him wrong for a time; Hawke had shown him that it was possible for those gifted with it to be kind and compassionate. Anders almost convinced him of it as he selflessly toiled away in his underground clinic. And there was Merrill, with her determination to help others, who had never said an unkind word to Fenris no matter how cruel he had been to her. But then Anders blew up a chantry and sent the world into a chaos it still had not recovered from. And now Hawke is gone, and it was a freak magical accident that had taken him away. Even the Inquisition with all their might and resources had insisted they could not go back into the Fade and rescue him; the blunt truth of the matter which Fenris forces himself to swallow was that Hawke is likely dead. He stayed behind to kill a demon of unimaginable power, and this time his altruistic nature truly had been the end of him.

On top of all that, it now seems Fenris has some unpredictable magic of his own, both a boon and a drawback to his capability in a fight.  _ If there is a Maker then this is surely a cruel joke at my expense _ , he thinks,  _ and I do hope he’s getting a kick out of it. _

Such thoughts are a distraction. Fenris pushes them away, knowing he can’t afford to have his attention wander. The lives of others are at stake and he would not be able to forgive himself if his absentmindness caused an unnecessary death.

It seems he regains his focus at just the right time. The scent of smoke clings to the air and instantly fills his throat. This is not the smell of a campfire - the burning seems to be something else.

The sight of red sails alight in a small clearing just ahead confirms his suspicions. Fenris feels his heart sink as he sees the aravels burning unhindered. A couple of halla have gathered at the edge of the clearing, and they bleat pathetically as what remains of their clan falls to ashes. Corpses trail from the blaze into the woods. At least it seems the Dalish put up a fight here, as one or two of the bodies seem too large to be elves.

“Seems we’re in luck, boys!”

The cheer rises up from the crackling and groaning of the burning caravan. Fenris ducks behind a tree and peers out to seek the source of the sound. From the smoke emerges a woman dressed in the unmistakable robes of Tevinter’s elite ruling class, the decorated staff on her back marking her as an Altus mage. She is followed by two dwarves hauling a frail elven girl between them. The girl fights and kicks for all she is worth, but her captors have her in a vice grip and seem little more than amused by her attempts at breaking free.

“Not all of you were stubborn enough to die then.” the woman continues, just within earshot as Fenris creeps closer through the brush. “One little knife ear will have to do. I’m sure I can get a high price from the right bidder.”

“Pretty thing. Seems a waste to sell her off. We should keep her.” One of the dwarves sneers as he suggests it, and Fenris feels his stomach lurch with rage at the insidious look he casts at the girl. His palms grow warm with flame that he quickly suffocates against his cloak - thankfully they do not notice him, too focused on their prey.

With another heart wrenching yell the girl manages to kick out the knee of one of the dwarves. He releases her with a grunt and falls to the ground and she seems to try to jerk away before slamming her full weight into the other. He stumbles back, thankfully too affected by shock to react immediately, and the girl darts off into the woods in the opposite direction to where Fenris crouches in the shadows bordering the glade.

“Little bitch!” The bruised dwarf yells.

“What are you waiting for?” the Altus woman screeches, “Get after her!”

“I wouldn’t be so hasty if I were you.” Fenris announces, lifting his voice to be heard above the fire as he steps forward. Daggers as sharp as a wyvern’s fangs glint in his hands. His face is concealed by a wide hood worn over his head, the lyrium marks on his forehead glowing faintly, and his cloak swishes around his legs. Despite his lithe frame he drifts out of the gloom with the presence of a reaper.

The mage scoffs, barely lifting a hand to summon a spell which comes as easily as breathing until there is a dagger lodged in her throat. She stumbles sideways, mindless fingers clawing at the hilt of the blade which is instantly slicked with her life blood. Fenris spins the second knife along his fingers lazily and turns his head to the two dwarves; one curses and turns to run, and falls flat on his face following the dull  _ thunk  _ of the second dagger embedding itself in his spine.

“No weapons left now, shadow.” The surviving slaver points out. If he is put off by the previous displays then it doesn’t show as he draws the cruel-looking mace at his hip.

Fenris smiles, his white teeth flashing in the dark. Despite past prejudice he’s been looking forward to trying out this new trick. It seems most mages opt for the use of staves and staffs to lessen the damage of elemental magic upon themselves. Fire and ice could both burn, and Fenris had seen firsthand the scars caused by errant bolts of lightning spun from a careless caster’s fingers. But unlike those who had been cooped up in their towers of knowledge and learning, Fenris knows pain. His powers rely on it. The introduction of magic to his arsenal does not change that.

He lifts his hands in a slow casual manner and begins to rub his palms together. The lyrium in his skin sears like hot wax at first before building to what he imagines a hot poker would feel like if one had grown accustomed to it; once again, not something that bothered him anymore. He extends his arms and wiggles his fingers experimentally, pleased with the sparks that fly between them.

“What  _ are  _ you?” The dwarf barks, hanging back warily now, his weapon still drawn.

“Your end.” Fenris replies, as a firestorm erupts from his outstretched hands. The dwarf lets out a strangled cry as the blaze engulfs him. He is soon little more than ash and a scorched mark on the earth.

Fenris scans the trees for any sign of the young girl. “You can come out now! It’s safe! They’re…. They’re gone!”

Silence, save for the crackling and popping of the burning caravan. But then he sees her only a stone’s throw away. Wide eyes stare at him from a freckled face, splattered with dried blood and dirt. Too young to bear the traditional vallaslin of the Dalish, she stands still and stares.

“It’s alright.” Fenris assures her, speaking no louder than he has to. His approach is cautious and he is grateful that the girl doesn’t bolt as he comes closer. 

“ _ Ar melana dirthavaren. Revas vir anaris. _ ”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand—“

“ _ Ma melava halani. Ma serannas _ .”

“Please, I—“

“ _ Fen'Harel enansal _ .”

Fenris stops only a few feet from the girl. Her expression was blank before, but as he freezes, a smile tugs at the corner of her delicate mouth.

“Fen’Harel…. The Dread Wolf?” Fenris repeats. Though his knowledge of the elvhen  language is limited almost entirely to what he had picked up from Merrill, he knows that word. It is often a curse among the Dalish. Why would this girl utter the name of a vilified god?

She points to her chest as Fenris remains silent. “Elira.”

“Is that…. your name?” he asks. He mirrors her and gestures to himself, careful not to catch his burned finger on the rough fabric of his cloak. “I’m Fenris.”

The girl - Elira - nods, as if this confirmed something for her. She smiles and beckons for Fenris to come closer. When he hesitates just a moment more she turns on her heel like a startled rabbit and hurries into the woods, disappearing into the darkness that had so helpfully cloaked Fenris only a few moments before.

Fenris curses softly under his breath and begins his pursuit. He leaps over felled logs and across treacherous ditches, all the while clinging to the glimpses of a flash of blonde pigtails illuminated by faint moonlight.

“Elira, wait!” he calls, hearing his own voice carry on the wind, echoing around him. Or perhaps it is the answer of lost spirits that live in these woods, and they are mocking him. He had heard of such places where the Veil was worn thin - places like Sundermount where a gritty history caused friction between one world and the next.

Finally he sees her in another clearing. The flames of the Dalish clan are far behind them; instead the glow illuminating the girl is not the soft pale blue of the moon but the sickly green of a Fade rift. Elias wanders close to it seemingly in wonder. Fenris feels panic rise in his chest as she reaches out to touch it, the edge warping and twisting under her scrutiny.

“No!” he yells, bursting through a cluster of ferns. “Get away from there!”

The girl smiles and shakes her head before leaping into the rift. The portal churns at the impact of her body passing through it, like the ripples across a body of water. Fenris stumbles to a halt and then begins to pace frantically back and forth. No demons spewed out of the rift. That didn’t mean there were not others across the Veil, perhaps waiting for someone careless like her to stumble in. The longer he hesitates, the less time Fenris has. She could be hurt or possessed or lost in there. No other help would come. He needs to do something, and he needs to do it now.

_ What would Hawke do? _

With a resigned sigh and a shake of his head, Fenris grits his teeth, takes a step back, and then surges forward to dive in after her.


	4. Unknown Territory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, Fenris lingers on what he has lost.

Fenris closes the door behind him. He doesn’t bother to wipe his bare feet - no one occupies these dusty halls anymore save for him. The rain hammers down upon Kirkwall mercilessly and with no fires lit the old mansion bears the chill of the grave. It is a place that has seen much death in recent years, both that of the innocents sacrificed here in the name of dark magic, and of those who he had killed with his own hands. Sometimes Fenris thinks he can hear wailing in the night. When such a thought strikes him, another bottle of wine normally drowns them in silence. 

He doubts there would be enough wine in the cellar to cloud his head tonight.

Hawke had always been so wonderful. Always with a ready joke or a kind word. From the moment they first met he had put Fenris at ease - no easy task, least of all for a man so proud to be a mage. Fenris had gone to Garrett after Hadriana’s death hoping to push it all away and confide in his friend. And when Hawke told him he didn’t have to leave, and grabbed him by the wrist to pull him close, he’d pinned him to the wall and kissed him, and kissed him again, and again and again. Before Fenris could doubt what he felt he was naked in Hawke’s arms, pressing him into the silk of the bedspread and panting against the sharp lines of his collarbones as brilliant ecstatic light danced behind his eyelids. 

Glimpses of shadowed faces, also behind his eyelids, interspersed with the light. Voices that Fenris knew, that something deep down in him recognised, were snatched in snippets between Hawke’s ragged breaths and soft delighted moans. The tantalising hints drove Fenris closer to a climax which should have been drawn from the man beneath him. When he finally found release Fenris choked back a sob as the memories withdrew once more, cruelly snatched from his mind. Hawke had held him, wide hands caressing his back and smoothing his hair. Hawke had fallen asleep beside him, and when he was out Fenris rose from the bed and dressed quickly.

He was as quiet as he could have been, but Hawke was disturbed by his escape attempt anyway. Then came the questions. Hawke did as he had always done, hiding the hurt behind humour, but Fenris knew he’d offended him. The ready smile fooled no one. Whatever chance he might have had at happiness with this wonderful man had been forsaken for his own means. Weak words excused Fenris from the room and out into the night.

_ All I wanted was to be happy… just for a little while. Forgive me. _

“Selfish.” he mutters to himself, “Stupid, selfish, awful, monstrous, idiot.”

How could he do this? All Hawke had ever shown him was kindness. And how had he repaid that kindness? By using him, by abusing the heat of the moment to chase fantasies of his history and then leaving without so much as a kiss or at the very least a more gentle word of goodbye.

Only a handful of portraits from the days of the previous inhabitants had survived Fenris’ stint in the mansion. Tonight he would ensure no more faces could leer out and mock him from the shadows of the otherwise bare walls. He would tear every last smirking face from their frames before the sun rose.

A knock at the door suddenly disturbs him from such a thought. Fenris spins on his heels and stares, blinking at it as the knocking comes again. This time it is followed by a call of his name from outside.

“Fenris? It’s me, Garrett.” the voice pleads, “Let me in. It’s absolutely pissing it down out here, and I’m bloody freezing.”

He should turn him away. Fenris doubts he could hurt Hawke anymore than he already has. And yet the man keeps knocking. He has followed Fenris home and demands to see him even after Fenris has rejected him.

Without thinking he is marching back down the hall and swinging the door wide open. As promised, there is Hawke. Rain pours down his face and drips off his beard almost comically. His robes are soaked through. But he’s smiling, Maker damn him, the same way he smiles whenever Fenris comes to the door any other day. It’s like he is about to ask if Fenris wants to tag along to some jaunt to the abandoned mines at the Bone Pit or to meet a suspicious contact out by the coast. Like he hasn’t just had his heart broken by the same elf he currently stands before.

“Well? Can I come in?”

Shocked by how calm Hawke is after the events of the last half an hour or so, Fenris finds himself stepping aside in silence. Hawke steps in and begins to apologise for making a puddle in the hall when he meets Fenris’ gaze and instantly falls silent.

“Why are you here?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you here, Hawke?” Fenris repeats the question, his voice bearing the hesitant softness of disbelief.

Garrett laughs. “Well, I couldn’t just leave you to brood in the dark. You’re my friend, in the very least. We can talk about whatever it is that’s bothering you and then maybe—“

“No.”

Hawke blinks at him. Fenris sighs, running a hand through his hair in frustration and then meeting Hawke’s eyes again. 

“I can’t…. We do not need to talk about this. It is not your burden to bear.”

“I care about you, Fenris. Please.” he insists, and he moves closer, then flinches as the other man takes a step back to avoid him. 

Fenris frowns at his feet on the cold stone floor of the mansion. Hawke is saying something else but he doesn’t hear the words. He remembers a flash of blonde hair, burning wood, the shadows of trees, and the roiling surface of a portal into the Fade.

“This isn’t real.” he murmurs, the realisation voiced to the illusion of the man he loves and wants to be with again more than anything in the whole world. It was a convincing illusion but not good enough. Even as he examines him, Hawke’s visage seems to stutter and fall apart. “This isn’t what happened. You-- He never came to me that night. He let me leave and then, the next day, acted like everything was fine. I’ve worn the red favour on my wrist ever since, but we didn’t talk about it until years after. So much wasted time… Stop this, whatever it is. I beg of you.”

“Of course, kitten. Anything for you.” Isabela replies. The merriment of the Hanged Man’s patrons echo around them. A bottle of wine offered to Fenris is enfolded in fingers adorned with gold rings. But he knows now that this is a lie as well. The wooden walls tremor slightly. None of the faces of the others in the tavern are recognisable, none of them solid enough for an instant to be known. Even Isabela herself seems to shift as he loses faith in the vision; at once her hair is tied up before it tumbles over her shoulders again, her white tunic is simultaneously immaculate and splattered with blood, and the wine in her hand spirals around as tumultuously as a storm in a bottle.

Isabela - or at least the pretence of her - catches her bottom lip between her teeth in a frustrated pout, the golden ball pierced through her skin bobbing with it. “I’m trying my best, you know. There’s a lot of hurt in your heart, Fenris. At least let me see the good parts. Don’t you want to be happy?”

“You can’t tempt me.” he mutters, “Release me from this place. I have work to do.”

“But you were tempted before, weren’t you? When you were helping that half-blood boy awake from his dreams?”

Fenris had tried to forget. The demon then had offered him freedom from those who still pursued him. Hawke had been trying to provide him with the same safety but at the time it felt like no one man could achieve such a thing. Fenris had spent so long on the run from Danarius and those who wanted him bound in chains once more; he would have done anything to be free of them, even betray the man he loves. 

“This isn’t going to be like that. But I can give you better, Fenris. I can make you happy here forever. You can be truly free.” it persists, the creature wearing his friend’s face reaching out to place a tender hand on his shoulder. Fenris steps back, another denial on his lips, and finds no purchase on the ground behind him. With a stuttered yell he is falling into emptiness, the light of the false Hanged Man fading away as he tumbles further and further into shadow.

And then he stops. Fenris didn’t notice that he had closed his eyes as he tumbled downwards. When he opens them he is met with a strange sight - a vast clifftop bathed in warm sunlight, and covered in autumnal trees and ornate mirrors, all upside down. He quickly realises it is in fact himself that is the wrong way up and it is at that moment that he begins to drift gently down to his feet like a leaf shaken loose by the wind. A giggle to his left snaps his attention to a young elven girl stood only a few feet away, sat cross-legged on a mound of jet black furs in the middle of a stone plaza.

“Elira!” Fenris exclaims, relieved at the sight of the girl apparently unscathed. “I don’t imagine you know where we are, do you?”

She smiles, and he doesn’t expect her to answer - or at least not in a way he would understand, given their previous interaction.

“This is the Crossroads.” she says simply. Apparently delighted by Fenris’ stunned silence she laughs again, smoothing her hands over the black fur she sits upon. “It is the place which spans all of Thedas in only a few steps. We are safe here. Fen’Harel protects us.”

“I don’t understand. You speak like one of the Dalish, but Fen’Harel is a name with the weight of a curse among your people.”

“They aren’t my people anymore than they are yours.” Elira replies with a dismissive huff. Her words carry the weight of perceived wisdom far beyond her own years, as if Fenris were instead the child. “And yet all of us will be  _ the  _ people again.”

Fenris knew where this sort of conjecture came from with children. He has seen it so many times in so many forms. Boys training to be Templars hurling abuse at the ‘ugly knife ear’ passing too close to the cloister, or the daughter of a barkeep whispering to her mother about the ‘godless heathen’ she was staring at in the corner as he kept to himself. It never bode well for him in any situation. It was never their own words being said, but those put there by adults they trust. Any adult encouraging a child to walk the Fade would not be someone Fenris would easily find common ground with.

Before he can ask for a better explanation, Elira stands and begins to walk towards Fenris. As she rises, the fur at her feet does as well. Rolling waves of ebony take the form of a great wolf standing a few feet taller than Fenris, and it pads after the elven girl like a loyal pet. It is not the size of the creature which alarms him the most however, nor its maw of razor sharp teeth that could bite him clean in half, nor the ready ease that Elira has around such a gargantuan beast; it is the dozens of eyes as deep and red as blood that watch him with the intense focus of a predator sizing up its prey.


End file.
